When he had read, Sir William Winslow held the letter up with a trembling hand, and there was evidently a renewed struggle in his bosom. But his eye rested on the note he had written to Chandos; and perhaps, he compared the feelings with which he had spontaneously addressed his brother, with those which were now excited by irritated pride, at what he conceived an attempt to drive him to that which he had been willing to do undriven. At all events, he smiled--very likely, at the first discovery of the secret springs of his own actions; and sitting down again--for he had risen for a moment--he wrote the following words:--
"Sir William Winslow presents his compliments to Mr. Miles, and begs to inform him that he is perfectly at liberty to make the proposed search at Elmsly. Sir William, however, would prefer that it should be made in the presence of his brother, Mr. Chandos Winslow, whom he will be happy to see at Elmsly, as soon as possible, for that purpose. He sincerely hopes that the will maybe found, as it may save some trouble; but, at the same time, he begs Mr. Miles to forward, or present the inclosed note (written some hours ago) to Mr. Winslow, begging him to understand that Sir William adheres to the contents, irrespective of the result of the search now demanded.
"Elmsly, &c."
The note was immediately despatched, and the master of the house leaned his head upon his hand in deep thought. He was disturbed by the entrance of the valet, who advanced with a low and humble bow, saying, "Could I speak with you for a moment, Sir?"
"No," replied the baronet, sternly; "I am engaged."
"But, Sir William," said the man.
"Leave the room, Sir!" thundered his master; "did you not hear me?"
The man obeyed; but as he quitted the library, he muttered, "Oh! very well."
Sir William Winslow felt he had gained something during the last few hours. It was courage of a peculiar sort. The day before he would not have found resolution so to answer a man, who, to a certain degree, had his life and honour in his hands. Now he had no hesitation; and as he sat and thought, he asked himself if it was the having taken the first step towards atonement which had restored to him his long-lost firmness. He thought it was; and he resolved to go on boldly. Perhaps he mistook the cause of the change in himself. His was one of those quick and irritable dispositions which cannot bear suspense of any kind, which will rather confront the utmost peril than wait an hour in fear; and the very fact of having taken a strong resolution gave the power to execute it. But still he fancied that the purpose of doing right, of making atonement, was the result of his renewed vigour; and the mistake was salutary.
In the meantime, the man whom he had dismissed from his presence so abruptly went out to one of the several backdoors of the house, and looked about, casting his eyes over the wood, which there came near the house. For a minute or two he seemed to be looking for something and not discovering it; but then, he beckoned with his finger, and a dark man, in a long great-coat, came across from under the trees and joined him.
They spoke in low tones, but eagerly, for about five minutes; and at last the dark man said, "No; we had better work separate. I will manage it, you'll see; and you can do the same if you do but frighten him enough. I must speak with the woman first; but I'll be back in an hour, if you think he'll be alone then."
"I dare say he will," answered the valet, "there are not many people come here now; but if there should be any one, you can wait about till they are gone."
"Very well," replied the other; and with a nod and a low laugh, he turned away, and left the Italian standing at the door.
Chandos Winslow sat in the little village inn at Elmsly, with his keen old solicitor from S----; who had, as the reader has seen, just mingled in a note to Sir William Winslow, a certain degree of lawyer-like formality, with an affection of commonplace ease, which he thought was masterly in its kind. They were awaiting the reply; and the lawyer calculated upon either one or two courses being adopted by the baronet to meet the pungent contents of his missive. "Sir William," he said, addressing Chandos, "will, I imagine, either beg to know where the will is supposed to be concealed, promising to cause search to be made himself; or else he will roughly refer us to his solicitors in London. Mark my words, if he does not. At all events, that last hit of our's yesterday--coming in, and finding the rough draught of the will in Roberts's handwriting, amongst the papers in the cabinet left to you with the other things--was capital. Hang me, Mr. Winslow, if I did not think for a minute that it was the will itself. However, as it is, we shall have an excellent case of it; and I should not wonder if it were to go through every court in England, up to the House of Lords."
"A pleasant prospect," said Chandos, drily; and he fell into the silence of expectation.
"Is Mr. Chandos Winslow here?" asked a good, clear, round voice, upon the stairs about five minutes after; and starting up, Chandos opened the door, when, to his surprise, he beheld Lockwood with the little boy, Tim Stanley.
"Well, I hope I've got him here in time," said Lockwood, "though I could not get over by noon, as you wished; for you see, Chandos, it is a good long round first to Northferry and then to Elmsly; and I did not receive the message till five this morning."
Chandos gazed on him in surprise, but shook him warmly, by the hand, and caressed the boy, saying, at the same time, "I am glad to see you both, Lockwood; but I certainly had no notion you were coming."
"Didn't you send?" exclaimed Lockwood. "Then who the devil did, I wonder? I had a message this morning shouted in at my window, at five, to bring the boy over here by noon to-day to meet you. But now we must have some dinner; for I am hungry enough, and the boy is ravenous. What have you done with Faber? Where's Atra Cura, if he is no longer behind the horseman?"
"We left him at S----," replied Chandos; "he was afraid to come within ten miles of Elmsly."
"He's a poor creature," cried Lockwood, "a very poor creature indeed. There is something in such weakness that debases prosperity, and makes even misfortune contemptible; though it is often an element of grandeur, as Seneca justly says: 'Nihil æque magnam apud nos admirationem occupet, quam homo fortiter miser.'"
"He's a little chicken-hearted," said the lawyer; "but he's very right to keep out of harm's way when he is not paid for going into it. And now, Mr. Winslow, I had better ring for something to eat for the nice little fellow--a son of yours, I presume--we can take a bit of lunch at the same time. It is an agreeable way of occupying time."
The luncheon was ordered; and though Chandos denied the degree of relationship to little Tim imputed, the lawyer remained in the same opinion. It did not at all spoil Tim's appetite, however. He was not at all aware that he had ever had a father, and would quite as soon have had Chandos in that capacity as any one else. He set to heartily then; and so did Lockwood, and eke the lawyer; but before the latter had eaten two mouthfuls, the messenger who had been sent to Elmsly returned with a letter for him.
"Soon decided!" said Mr. Miles; "he has not taken long to consider." And after opening the cover containing the epistle addressed to himself, he held the one enclosed in his hand, without looking at the direction, while he read the other.
"Well, this takes me by surprise!" said the lawyer; "remorse of conscience, evidently! Read that, Mr. Winslow; the other is for you too."
Chandos took the letters, and read first, with much wonder, the one which had been opened; and then broke the seal of the other, which contained these words:--
"Come to me, Chandos. Let us forget the past, and be really brothers for the future. If you can show me, as I think you hinted, the particulars of the last will, it shall be acted upon by me as if it were before me. If not, I will put it in force as far as I recollect it; for I certainly did read it once; but that is a long time ago, and I do not perfectly remember it. At all events, come to me; for there is a sort of heavy presentiment upon me, that my life will not last long; and I would fain die in friendship with my brother.
"Yours,
"William Winslow."
"It must be so, indeed!" said Chandos Winslow; "this change is too great, too sudden to be in the ordinary course of events. Some severe illness must be hanging over him. Come, Mr. Miles, let us go at once, Lockwood will stay with the boy till we return."
"Nay, I will go with you part of the way, at least," said Lockwood; "and you shall tell me what is the drift of all this as you go; for I am in darkness. Tim can take care of himself; can't you, Tim?"
Chandos threw Lockwood his brother's two letters; and, while he read them over in silence, little Tim declared he could take care of himself very well. Lockwood, however, took his hat and accompanied his half-brother and the lawyer on their way, sometimes asking a question, sometimes falling into a fit of thought.
"I'll tell you what, Chandos," he said at length, "I cannot help thinking there is some trick in all this. I never saw such a sudden change. Why it is only three nights ago that he growled at you like a dog."
"No, no, there is no trick," replied Mr. Winslow; "but I fear there is some serious illness, either commenced or approaching, which has thus depressed his spirits, and given conscience power to make her voice heard in the stillness of the passions."
"Well, I am not quite satisfied of that," answered Lockwood, "and shall be glad to hear the result; but I will not go in with you. We were never friends, and the sight of me might raise the devil again. I shall look out for you, however, as you come back."
"I will lead you the shortest way," said Chandos, speaking to the lawyer, who was approaching the great gates; "that path takes one half a mile round;" and proceeding along the road, he did not enter the park till he reached a small doorway, which stood open during the day.
The path with which this doorway communicated, led through the depth of a splendid wood of Spanish chestnuts, divided by somewhat formal alleys, which crossed each other in various directions. When Chandos and his companions had walked on not more than two hundred yards, they could hear the voices of two persons speaking vehemently, and at the first traversing alley which they came to, they all turned their heads to the right, whence the sounds proceeded. Perhaps eighty or ninety yards from them, under the green shade of the wide leafy trees, were standing a man and a woman. The man Chandos immediately recognized as his companion in the stage-coach some days before, and in the woman, whose face was turned towards them, he saw Sally Stanley. She was throwing about her arms in wild and even fierce gesticulation, and in the stillness of their footfalls over the turf, he could hear her exclaim, "If you do, a curse will cleave to you and destroy you, which never failed yet--a curse which will,"--but then her eyes lighted on the three persons who were passing, and she darted in amongst the trees.
The man followed her, after taking a look round; and Lockwood asked, "Do you know who those are?"
"Tim's mother," answered Chandos; "and one of her tribe, I suppose."
"One of the gipsies, if you mean that," replied Lockwood; "and the worst fellow amongst them. If I catch him, I will break every bone in his skin. He gave me a blow when I had my hands tied, and I will not forget him. But as to Sally Stanley being one of the gipsies, Chandos, that is a mistake."
"Then my suspicions are correct;" said Mr. Winslow, with an inquiring look at the other's face. "How was she saved from the river?"
"That I don't know," replied Lockwood; "the gipsies pulled her out, I suppose. But I thought you must have known all about it, from your fondness for the boy. If you come to calculate, you will see whose son he must be."
"How strange are the turns of fate!" said Chandos; and the whole party fell into deep thought.
Two or three minutes after, Lockwood halted, saying, "I will go out into the open part of the park, and wait for you under a tree; for I am anxious to have the first news:" and Chandos and the lawyer walked on to the house, which was not more than a quarter of a mile in advance. When they were gone, Lockwood sauntered up and down for about ten minutes--perhaps it might be a little more; for he was a man accustomed to solitude and his own thoughts; so that lonely time flew fast with him. At length, however, he thought he heard a light step running; and the next moment Sally Stanley was by his side. Her face was eager, and her eyes sparkling, but not with joy.
"Lockwood," she said, in a low tone, "Lockwood, run up to the village; to the inn."
"Has anything happened to the boy?" cried Lockwood, with a look of apprehension.
"No, no!" answered the woman; "but run up--find out what the two men are doing over here--the two men from S----. Listen to what they say-- and save him if they are seeking him."
Her meaning was not very clear; but there was so much apprehension and impatience in her look, that Lockwood, saying, "Well, well, I suppose I shall find out what you mean when I get there," turned away and left her.
His long legs and his quick steps soon brought him to the door of the Golden Bull, at Elmsly; but all seemed quiet on the outside of the house, at least. There was a little sort of gig, with the horse taken out, standing in the road, and no other thing to attract attention. Lockwood entered the house, and was about to walk up to the room where the boy had been left, when in what was called the parlour, on the left, he heard some men's voices speaking; and in he went.
The room contained two men and a servant girl, putting down some beer and glasses before them; and Lockwood sat down and asked for a glass of ale. Two or three sentences passed between the previous occupants of the room, which seemed principally to refer to their own dinner; but there were words mingled with their discourse which made the last comer lend an attentive ear; and before the ale was brought to him, he rose, walked slowly out of the room with a careless air, hurried up stairs, and spoke a few eager words to the boy Tim.
He was answered only by a look of quick intelligence; and after receiving a few words of clear direction as to the way to Elmsly House, Tim snatched up his cap and ran off.
Lockwood then descended to the parlour again, drunk his ale, and took up an old newspaper that lay on one of the tables.
We must now turn to Sir William Winslow again. He remained for full a quarter of an hour in thought; but then he rose, and walked backwards and forwards in the library, with a quick step: there was a struggle within him. While he had remained seated, old feelings, old habits of thought, old vices of the mind began to return upon him. None of the devils which torture and tempt humanity ever give up their prey without strife; and they wrestled with his spirit still; but remorse, and wearing, constant apprehension had shaken their hold of him, and he was strong enough to cast them off. There came too, in aid of better feelings that longing for companionship, for the support of love or friendship, which grows upon the heart when worldly enjoyments fail. He thought, what a pity it was that he and Chandos had not lived together in affection; he knew that it was his own fault, and he resolved it should be his own fault no longer. Yet he doubted himself--yet he feared; and at length, after he had walked up and down at the same hurried pace for full three-quarters of an hour, he started with a feeling almost of irritation, when the servant opened the door, and announced that Mr. Winslow and another gentleman were in the drawing-room.
"Show them in," said Sir William Winslow, and he stood leaning on the library table, watching the door.
The expression of his brother's countenance at once did away all that was painful in his feelings. It was full of kindness and tenderness, and advancing with a quick step, Chandos took Sir William's proffered hand in both his own, and pressed it warmly.
"This is very kind of you, William," he said. "But, good God! how ill you look! In Heaven's name send for some physician."
"No, no, Chandos," said Sir William Winslow; "there is no need. I have gone through much mental pain since I saw you--but of that no more: let us for the future be brothers indeed--but now to business: you may search where you please for the will you mention; and I trust in God you may find it."
"No, William," said Chandos, frankly. "I will tell you where I think it is. Search for it yourself; I trust you fully."
Mr. Miles pulled him by the sleeve, saying, "But my dear Sir, my dear Sir--"
"Hush," said Chandos, sternly.--"I think, William," he continued, "from a memorandum I have found, that the will is in the drawer of that table; and I and my solicitor will quit the room, if you please, while you search."
"Not for the world," replied Sir William Winslow. "But you are mistaken, Chandos; the will is not there, as you may see;" and he drew out the drawer with a sharp pull. There appeared nothing but a small piece of vellum, folded like a letter, and the lawyer immediately exclaimed, "There it is!"
"No, Sir, it is not," answered Sir William Winslow, sharply; "that is a letter addressed to me, nothing more."
Chandos smiled, saying, "That is only a part of the contents of the drawer. Press your thumb tightly on the right side at the back, William. The memorandum is marked with the initials, S. D. E. which I interpret 'Secret Drawer, Elmsly.' Now, I know of no secret drawer but the one in that table, which I have once or twice seen my father open."
Sir William instantly pressed on the inside, as he was directed, but without effect; and he turned towards the bell, saying, "I will have it broken open; for I feel it yield under my hand."
"Stay, stay," said Chandos, "let me try;" and coming round to that side of the table, he put his hand into the drawer, and pressed hard. At the first touch the piece of wood which formed the false back flew out, and an inner drawer was pushed forward by a spring from behind. It contained a considerable number of papers, and a small basket full of gold coin. At the top of the papers, however, was a packet, sealed with black, and marked, in a lawyer's hand, "Last will and testament of Sir Harry Graves Winslow, Bart." Underneath was written, in Sir Harry's own handwriting, "For Chandos Winslow, Esq. To be opened before the funeral."
Chandos did not touch the will; but Sir William took it out and put it into his hands, saying, "Stay! We had better have more witnesses before you open it;" and ringing the bell, he ordered the butler to be sent.
"My brother, Mr. Winslow," he said, when the man appeared, "has pointed out to me this secret drawer, which I had not before discovered; and in it we have found this paper, which seems to be a later will of my father's than that already read. I wish you to be present while it is examined. Now, Chandos, let us hear the contents."
Chandos opened it, and placed the paper which he found within the cover in the hands of Mr. Miles, who, with spectacles on nose, proceeded to read it aloud, having first ascertained that it was duly signed and attested.
The purport of the will was precisely that which Faber had stated. Winslow Abbey, and the estates attached, with all the furniture, books, and pictures in the house, were left to Chandos Winslow; but the property was charged with an annuity of four hundred a year to Faber. A few legacies were given to servants. Five thousand pounds, in lieu of all other demands, was assigned to Lockwood; and all other property, real and personal, including a large sum in public securities, of the existence of which Sir William had been hitherto ignorant, was left to the deceased baronet's eldest son. The clergyman of the village, and a gentleman in London, were named as executors, together with Mr. Roberts, whom Sir Harry probably expected to act for all.
When the will had been read, Sir William took his brother's hand, and pressed it in his own; and nodding his head to the butler, he said, "You may go. Now, my good Sir," he continued, turning to Mr. Miles, "the best thing you can do is to take that paper down to the gentleman there named, in the village of Elmsly; tell him how we found it, and ask him if he is prepared to act. In fact, take all the necessary steps for substituting this will for the other. I shall of course consent to all that is required. There may be some difficulty indeed as to the Abbey property, in regard to which I have acted rashly; but that I must settle as I can. My brother will join you in a little, at the inn. At present I wish to speak to him for a few minutes."
He spoke in somewhat of his old imperious tone; and the little lawyer took the hint, and departed rapidly.
"And now, Chandos," said Sir William Winslow, in a voice that trembled with emotion, "tell me one thing. Have you not a boy under your charge, a boy of about seven or eight years old?"
"I have, William," answered Chandos, with a faint smile; "and as fine and brave a boy he is as ever lived."
"Is he not my son?" demanded Sir William Winslow, in a low tone.
"I have every reason to think he is," answered Chandos.
"Where is he? where is he?" exclaimed his brother. "I must see him, Chandos; I must have him here."
"That you can have in half-an-hour," answered Chandos: "I left him at the village inn."
"Oh, send him to me!" cried Sir William: "I knew not she had had a child. Yet, stay one moment; promise me, Chandos, as a man of honour, if anything befalls to take me hence, that you will be a father to my boy."
"Be you sure I will, William," answered Chandos Winslow. "Is there anything more?"
"Yes, one thing more," replied his brother, taking up the paper he had written in the morning; "I have there put down my wishes--informally perhaps--in the shape of a will. I have named you my executor; and I am sure that, whether the will be valid or not, you will carry it out."
"Upon my honour," answered Chandos Winslow, "if you have left the boy your whole property, it shall be his."
"No, I have not done that," said Sir William; "I have not wronged you, Chandos, in this at least: and now send me my boy as soon as may be; but come yourself afterwards. Take the will with you. No one can tell what may happen from hour to hour in this life."
"That is true, William;" answered Chandos; "but yet I trust there is no such imminent danger, though it is evident you are far from well. If you would see a physician, you would really greatly oblige me; but I will speak with you more on that subject, when I return, which shall be ere long."
The moment his brother was gone, Sir William Winslow rang the bell, and sent for his valet. The man entered with a peculiarly placable and even smiling look; a visitation with which his countenance was seldom troubled. But it was soon changed into one of dark malevolence; for the first words of his master were:--"I sent for you, Benini, to tell you that I shall have no further need of your services after the end of a month. You have warning to that effect. You may go."
"Very well, Sir William," replied the man; "but it might be better for you to think."
"I have thought," answered Sir William, sternly; "you may retire, I say."
The man bowed, and left the room; and Sir Winslow murmured, "That is done--I will not live in fear. Death is better."
"There is a man at the hall-door wishes to speak with you, Sir;" said a footman, entering.
"I am busy," said his master; "I cannot be disturbed--Who is he?"
"I do not know, Sir," answered the servant; "a tall, strong man, well dressed enough; but with a face like a gipsey, or a mulatto--he said he must and would see you, as he had business of importance to speak about."
"Well, if he must and will see me, send him in," said the baronet; "I think I will soon dispatch his business."
The man retired, and soon returned with the same personage whom Chandos had seen speaking with her whom we have called hitherto Sally Stanley, in the park.
"What do you want with me?" asked Sir William Winslow, fiercely.
His visitor paused till the door was shut, and then replied, in a rude, familiar tone, "I want a little money, Sir William; that's the truth. But if I get money, I can give money's worth."
Sir William Winslow's heart sunk. "Indeed!" he said; "pray, what can you give?"
"Silence," answered the man.
"Silence!" repeated the baronet in a low voice; "silence about what?"
"I will tell you a little story, Sir," was the answer; "I am a poor man, who get my living how I can. On the fifth of last February, I was in the grounds of Northferry-house, from a little before five till an hour or two after. Now, I want a thousand pounds. When I have got it, I will go abroad and join some of my own people in another country."
Sir William Winslow had fallen into a deep fit of thought, and his lips were very white. Though conscience had cowed him, at first, even with the valet; yet, on further consideration, his courage had revived; and he had argued that the Italian could prove little or nothing unsupported by the evidence of others. But this case was different. He dared not grapple with it. His brain seemed to reel. His heart felt as if the blood stood still in it. The man had been on the spot at the time; he had evidently seen all. His testimony joined to that of the Italian was death. Would he brave it? Would he dare him to do his worst? Would he undergo trial--risk condemnation. He thought of his son, of his brother, of his family, of the honour of his name and race: and when the man went away, the basket, full of gold pieces, which had been found in the secret drawer, was empty.
The unhappy man he left sat for a few minutes with his hands covering his eyes. Who shall tell the agony of his thoughts? He was roused by some one tapping at one of the windows which descended to the ground; and starting up, he beheld a beautiful boy, with a sun-burned face, plainly, but well dressed, gazing in.
Sir William strode forward, threw the window open, and gazed at the boy with strange and new sensations: "Who are you, my dear?" he said, taking his hand, and leading him in. "Did Mr. Winslow send you?"
"No," answered the boy; "I came to seek him: Mr. Lockwood sent me."
"But do you not live with Mr. Winslow?" asked Sir William; "is he not kind to you?"
"Oh! that he is," replied the boy, warmly. "But is he here?"
Sir William Winslow cast his arms round him, held him to his heart, and wept, without reply.
"No harm has happened to him?" asked the boy, anxiously.
"Oh no!" said his father; "no. He promised to send you down to me; but he must have taken a different road from you. What did you want with him? Do you know who I am?"
"No, I do not," replied the boy; "but if you are Sir William Winslow, his brother, I was to tell you, in case he was gone"--
"And what were you to tell?" demanded the baronet. "I am Sir William Winslow."
"Then put down your ear, and I will whisper it," said the boy; "for I was not to let any one else hear. Mr. Lockwood said that you were to mount your horse and ride over to Winslow Abbey as fast as possible, by the east gates of the park; because there are two constables come over from S----, drinking at the inn; and we heard them say that they would have you in gaol in an hour, as they had your brother; but that they would dine first."
Sir William gazed at the boy with straining eyes, but without reply; and the sweet young voice added, "Oh go, go! It is a horrible place a gaol. Any place is better than that."
"It is!" said Sir William Winslow, solemnly; "It is!"
Again he held the boy to his heart; he pressed a warm and eager kiss upon his broad forehead; laid his hand upon his bead, and said aloud, "May God bless thee, my child!" He then turned abruptly, and quitted the room by a door which led to a small cabinet beyond. The boy gazed over all the fine things the library contained for a minute or two; and then asked himself if he should go or stay. The next moment there was a report of fire-arms, a heavy fall, and a low groan. The boy was terrified; he knew not at what. He crept towards the door and listened; but the moment after he heard the voice of Chandos in the hall; and running out, he caught him by the hand as he was speaking to one of the old footmen, and said, in a low voice, "Some one has been shooting in the house; and there is a groaning in that room."
"What does he mean?" cried Chandos, addressing the old man in much agitation.
"I thought I heard a shot too, Sir, when I was coming to answer your bell," said the servant, with a white face; "I hope nothing has happened. Master has been very odd all day."
"Where is it, Tim? Where is it?" cried Chandos.
"Here!" said the boy, leading the way to the library, and then pointing to the door.
They opened it; and found what had been Sir William Winslow on the floor, with a pistol firmly clenched in his right hand, and the barrel grasped between his teeth. A powder-flask and bag of balls lay on a chair; and the carpet was drenched with blood.
Crowds came and went to and from Elmsly House. For a long week the little world of the neighbourhood was kept in agitation by facts and falsehoods. Coroner's juries sat, and returned a verdict as much opposed to common sense as usual. The constables from S---- went back to their own place unaccompanied, and lost their labour. The Great Devourer had swallowed up the destined prey of judges and juries. Sir William Winslow was pronounced to have destroyed himself in a moment of temporary insanity; and there is no trying the dead for murder. The people viewed the plain and unostentatious funeral with feelings of greater awe than is usually felt; for crime, by its happy rarity, has a greater effect than common death. Wild tales were told; some near to, some far from, the truth; and the nine days' wonder subsided, leaving the sky clear, and the waters smooth again.
So much for the outside of Elmsly House. In the inside, other scenes were taking place. Chandos did not quit the house, but, with his solicitor, remained in possession of that which was now his own; but the second night after the fatal event, when the coroner had sat and his jury had returned their verdict, the old servant Jacob came to his young master in the library, to tell him that there was a woman walking round and round the house, and weeping. "I saw her just now, Sir," said the man; "and she seems flesh and blood; but were it not for that, I could almost swear that it was poor Susan Grey, of the mill, who drowned herself, you may remember."
"She was saved, my good friend," answered Chandos. "I will go and speak to her."
He went, and what took place he did not ever care to repeat; but on his return he ordered the hall door to be left open night and day, and no one to oppose the entrance of that woman at any time, or to speak to her if they saw her. Each night she visited the room where the body of Sir William Winslow lay, and sat beside it from the hour of midnight till the east grew gray. On the night before the funeral she covered the coffin with ivy-leaves, and lingered till it was quite light ere she departed. Chandos Winslow was already up; and a servant, who watched at the door, instantly gave him notice that she was going forth. He followed her at once, and spoke to her both long and earnestly. The servants from the windows saw him show her a paper too; but she did not return with him to the house, which they judged by his gestures that he asked her to do.
On the following day, he and the boy Tim went out on foot, in deep mourning, and remained away for several hours; and in the evening they set out for London.
The first visit of Chandos was, as might be expected to the house of General Tracy; but he had little more to tell than the party there already knew, for his letters had been frequent during the last week. He thought Rose looked more lovely than ever; and though all that she had gone through, and the dark events which had connected themselves with the rise and progress of their love, had cast a saddening shade over the sparkling brightness of her face, yet there seemed to the eyes of Chandos more gained than lost by that softening melancholy. When Emily appeared, she was in mourning, not very deep, yet sufficient to mark a sense of the painful circumstances under which she had been freed from her ill-starred engagement to his brother. She greeted him warmly and affectionately; and gazed at him and Rose as they sat together on the sofa, as if she fancied, in her desponding mood, that in their happiness would consist her future. A brighter fate, however, was reserved for her at last.
A good deal of business remained for Chandos to transact. His brother's will, by which a thousand per annum was bequeathed to "the boy, now under the charge of Chandos Winslow, Esq.," was proved; and, to avoid all doubt or cavil which such vague expressions might cause at a future period, Chandos at once secured the annuity to his little protégé by deed. With Lord Overton, he found no difficulty. The production of his father's second will showed at once that Sir William Winslow had no power to sell the Winslow Abbey estate; and the money to repay the sum which had been received as part payment was easily raised upon the Elmsly property. The remainder of the rents of that portion of his land the young baronet set aside as a sinking-fund to pay off the encumbrance; and from that source, with the money in the public funds, the property was cleared in a few years. When all the necessary arrangements were complete in London, Chandos left the little boy at the house of General Tracy, and went down again to prepare Winslow Abbey for the reception of a bride. Much was wanting; but skill, and taste, and ample means accomplished with great speed the reparation of all that many years of neglect had done to dilapidate the building, and desolate the grounds.
It was one day while thus employed that he was joined in the park by Lockwood, who came to tell him that a young gipsey had been to his house to ask where Chandos was, and to request him to come down to the wood on the other side of the river.
"I fear," said Lockwood, "that poor girl is very ill, from what the lad told me."
Chandos went instantly to the spot pointed out, and found the apprehensions of Lockwood fully verified. Under a coarse, dingy blanket, hung between two trees, to give more air than one of the ordinary gipsey tents afforded, with dimmed eyes and sunken cheeks, lay the once lovely Susan Grey. Her mind was wandering very much; but she knew Chandos at once; and from time to time the troubled stream of her thoughts seemed to become suddenly clear. The young gentleman remained by her side for more than two hours with several of the gipsies, both male and female, looking on. In the course of her rambling and broken conversation, much of her preceding history was told. It seemed that when she had cast herself headlong from the bank into the river, near Elmsly, some gipsies had been passing by; and an old man, the head of the tribe, had rescued her. It was an exploit of his old age, and he was proud of it; and loving her because he had saved her from destruction, he adopted her as his daughter. Her superior knowledge, for she had been carefully educated, and even the occasional aberration of her intellect, and the quick decision of character which bitter misfortune sometimes gives, soon obtained for her great consideration in the tribe, which was confirmed by the accidental fulfilment of many of her fortunate guesses. So of course we must call them; but it is to be remarked that she herself, even in her last hour, maintained that her predictions proceeded from a real foresight of coming events. Although she had eagerly sought to see Chandos, he could only discover that she had one request to make, and that referred to her interment.
"Let me have Christian burial," she said more than once; "for I die a Christian; and lay me beside him who should have been my husband."
Chandos promised, and he kept his word; for, much to the scandal of some, the poor miller's erring daughter, the wandering gipsey woman, lies in the vault of the Winslow family.
"Ay, she came to choose her place more than a month ago," said the old sexton, after the funeral: "she gave me two golden sovereigns one night, to let her have the keys of the vault for two hours; and I knew very well what she came for, so I didn't disturb her."
It was in the brown autumn time that Rose Tracy gave her hand to Chandos Winslow; and at Christmas the whole party assembled round the fire at Northferry. By the side of Emily, whose cheek had regained the rose, and whose lip had won back its smiles, sat Horace Fleming. He looked very happy. Something was whispered to Emily, while the rest were busy with other things. "No Horace," she said; "yet three months, and then if you will."
A few other characters remain to be disposed of; but as no great length of time has passed since the events just detailed took place, the fate of several of our people is still hanging in the balance where we weigh till death. Little Tim is now, I believe, at Eton; and is a remarkably intelligent and amiable boy. The young gentleman will excuse my not mentioning the name he now goes by. It is neither Winslow nor Stanley. Lockwood is precisely the same being as when Chandos first met with him--down to the leather gaiters. One satisfactory thing has occurred within my own knowledge. The Italian, Benini, is working in chains at Leghorn. He went into the service of a Russian nobleman, who, to Benini's great grief, was cruelly assassinated at Sienna. The police of Tuscany, however, did not like Benini to be so much afflicted; and they tried him for murder. He persisted in declaring his innocence; but the incredulous brutes would not believe him; and under the mild laws of that mild government, he was condemned to hard labour for life.
One word more: Mr. Scriptolemus Bond is a Valet de Place, in Paris, where he exercises his abilities in the same direction as before, though in a narrower sphere. He, however, is contented with his fate, although repinings will sometimes visit him, especially when a share list meets his eyes.
On the contrary, Chandos Winslow, and Rose his wife, are contented, without repining. They may have to suffer some evils, as a healthy man will have a cold now and then; but if we were to look into all hearts, the grand secret which they would display is this, that, balance the account of life how we will, the sum of happiness is in favour of virtue. Without it, there is no contentment; and with it, the peace of God which passes all understanding, surpasses everything that earth can give.